Dream Come True
by Andrea Colt
Summary: A girl finds herself in a very unusual situation, and it's Sam and Dean to the rescue. Set after Heart. First in the Andrea series.


_This is my first ever fan fiction. I'd been daydreaming for days about what it might be like to go on a hunt with Sam and Dean Winchester, and I decided to try to write it. Little did I know I would be driven to keep writing about it. This is the first story in a series, and I hope my writing, and the story itself, improves with each one. I've even taken my penname from the name of the character I created to hunt with the boys because I wish I could be her._

**Dream Come True**

I was standing in the rain by the side of a road. I'd been there for maybe five minutes I think, but I couldn't really be sure because I had no idea how I'd gotten there… The rain wasn't heavy, but it was enough that I was quickly getting soaked. I was too busy trying to figure out how I'd gotten there to worry about it, though. I had no clue. I had no idea where I was. The road was a two lane blacktop, no signs were visible from where I was standing. I could see fenced pastures, fields, and trees in all directions, but no houses anywhere. With the rain, the dimming twilight, and the light fog, and my complete lack of memory… well, I was lost, and scared.

No cars had passed in the time I stood there. There were no signs that I could see to show me which way the nearest town might be. I was freaked out, but I'd been standing there in the rain and cold long enough that the discomfort was starting to override the panic. Digging in my pocket I found a quarter and was about to flip it to decide which way to start walking when I saw headlights. I waved my arms as a big black car rumbled out of the rain and pulled to a stop just past me.

Relief flooded through me. I started to walk towards it when I noticed that it was an Impala. _Huh, what are the odds?_ A few more steps brought me up short. It had Kansas plates. That wasn't too odd, I lived in Kansas, and it should have made me happy. It should have been a sign that I wasn't too far away from where I should be. But it didn't. It didn't because I recognized the numbers, too. KAZ 2Y5. I wasn't in Kansas, anymore. I was over the rainbow.

_Maybe not_, I told myself, _maybe it's just a fan who can afford to buy a car and get personalized plates just' cause he or she really likes the show_. My hand went to my necklace. _Heck, I spent twenty bucks on this fugly amulet just' cause it's a replica from the show._

The memories of the last thing I'd been doing before I'd found myself in the rain rushed back to me when I remembered the amulet. I'd been killing a Saturday afternoon browsing through my favorite antique store. Maggie, the owner, had come in through the front lugging an overflowing box, and I held the door open for her.

"Thank you, dear. There's a delivery van blocking the alley, and I couldn't get to the rear entrance," she explained as I took the heavy box from her and set it on the counter. Maggie was as much of an antique as the things she sold, but she was still spry and full of stories for anyone who cared to stick around and listen to her. Beth, her granddaughter, had been minding the store when I came in, and now was off in the back somewhere.

I was a regular here, often popping in on Saturdays to see what was new, looking for more curiosities for my collection. I had a pretty big collection of oddities, nothing very valuable, but all of them unique or interesting. My favorites are the replica Freemason flask bottle made of cobalt blue glass, and my tiny blue-green scarab beetle bead from Egypt.

Anyway, Maggie knew me well enough that she didn't object when I started unloading the box of her newest acquisitions for the store. We gossiped a bit as I helped her. Near the bottom of the box was a trinket box that made me stop talking and stare. By the way my eyes lit up Maggie must have been sure she'd made another sale. The box was vaguely Egyptian in style, and I always like Egyptian stuff, but what really got my attention was the horned woman on the top. It looked just like my necklace. I picked it up, and it was heavy, like it was made from stone. I opened it to see if anything was inside…

And suddenly I was getting wet.

I took a few steps closer to the car. I'd convinced myself that the driver would be just another fan. Someone I could tell my story to, and we'd compare it to one of the scrapes Sam and Dean had gotten into and have a laugh, and he'd help me figure out how I'd gotten myself into this mess. We'd joke about demon possession, then find out I wasn't all that far from home at all and I'd just had a knock to the head or something.

But all that rationalization, that squashing of my first gut reaction left me totally unprepared for who was sitting in the driver's seat when I finally walked up to it, and just as unprepared for the guy in the passenger seat as well. My stomach flip-flopped, and my knees went weak. I must have gone pale, too, because the next thing I knew he was out of the car with an arm around me, and Sam was there opening the back door so Dean could help me down onto the rear bench seat. Things _had_ grayed around the edges there for a moment, and maybe I had almost fainted.

They were talking, I think Sam was asking if I was ok, but the words couldn't fully penetrate my haze of disbelief. Then Dean noticed my necklace.

"Where did you get that?" he demanded, reaching for his own as if to make sure it was still around his neck.

"I ordered it online. EBay. I'm kind of a fan of you two. What are the odds that Jensen and Jared would be driving down this road?" I replied, my mind finally latching onto a reasonable explanation. Even though the convention in Lawrence wasn't for another five months, and they weren't scheduled to appear anyway, they must be in the area for that. I squashed the little voice in the back of my head that tried to warn me that _that_ wasn't really reasonable, either.

"Who?" Sam said, his forehead creasing as he and Dean looked at each other, puzzled.

I snorted a half suppressed laugh. "Ok, I've read about the way you two like to joke. I promise I'll try very hard not to turn into a screaming fangirl. Though, I'm still a little wowed by the fact that of all the roads, in all of the country, you two should be driving down the one I happen to get myself lost on. But, as excited as I am to meet you, well… I've kind of got a problem."

Dean broke in with, "I think you've got us confused with someone else."

Sam followed with, "What kind of problem?" He had rain dripping down his face. They were both getting wet, Dean crouched there by the door to meet me at eye level, and Sam half leaned against the side of the car, kind of bent down to see my face.

"Your upholstery is getting wet," was all I could think to say. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I wanted to kick myself. There I was meeting two of the sexiest guys on TV and I was worried about the Metallicar's upholstery. _They must think I'm a freak_, I thought. I reached up to adjust my glasses. I always do that when I'm nervous, but they weren't there. Everything was in clear, sharp focus, but I didn't have my glasses on. I looked down to see if I'd dropped them, and that's when I really did faint.

o0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0o

When I came to, I was on a bed in a cheap orange and brown motel room with a mirror tiled ceiling. I could hear water running in the bathroom, and there was the clicking of a keyboard off to my right somewhere, but I couldn't take my eyes off of my reflection in the ceiling. It confirmed what I thought I'd seen in the car - the surprise revelation that had made me pass out. They really weren't Jensen and Jared.

I knew this because my own body wasn't my body anymore. I had a TV body. I was gorgeous. I was about 60 pounds lighter than I was in real life, and I was toned. The acne scars on my face were gone, and my skin was smooth and actress perfect. I didn't need glasses anymore. I still looked like me, but it was a perfect version of me, a TV version of me. I was the me that I had always wished I could be. That's when I decided that I must be dreaming.

The mirrored ceiling also revealed, when I could tear my eyes away from my dream body, that the keyboard clacking was coming from Sam. He had his laptop set up on the room's table and was hunched over it, totally engrossed in whatever he was doing. I had a little argument with myself as I watched him. If this was a dream, there would be no harm in coming on to him, or to Dean for that matter, because if it was a dream it would go the way I wanted, and I'd wake up a happy fangirl. But if it wasn't a dream, if I really was stuck in TV-land, then the last thing I ought to do is alienate the two guys who could do the most to help me.

I'd decided a long time ago that if I ever found myself in a situation that I wasn't sure was real or not, I'd treat it as if it was real. I've watched too many movies and read too many books where characters embarrassed themselves, or worse, almost died, because they couldn't accept what was happening to them and thought it was a dream. Besides, if it is real, I could end up dead, so it would be better to treat this as deadly serious. _But it's Dean and Sam and I may be passing up one of the most vivid dream opportunities I've ever had_, the bad girl in my head was tempting, but I decided, for now, to treat it as real.

The water in the bathroom shut off, and I snapped my eyes shut just before the door opened. I wanted a little more time to figure out what I was going to say to them.

"Is she awake yet?" came Dean's deep voice. I had to fight the temptation to look over at him.

"No, still out," Sam answered.

"Ok, so remind me why we're not just dropping her off at the emergency room and letting the authorities handle this? Lost and found isn't exactly our type of gig."

From the way Sam sighed I guessed they must have had this conversation already, "Because I've got a feeling, she's got a necklace, and you can't resist a damsel in distress."

"Oh, right."

"You know I'm going to keep bugging you about that necklace until you tell me what the big deal is."

"Sammy, you're my brother, and I'd die for you, but some things a man has to keep to himself." I recognized the line from one of the first season episodes, Bloody Mary, I think. He was using Sam's own words against him, and it must have worked. After a moment of quiet, and I can only imagine the looks that must have passed between them, the subject was changed. "So, any luck finding out who Jason and Jared are? The way she talked about them, they've got to be famous."

"No, nothing on them, and get this – I ran her name through a few checks, and she doesn't exist either. This must be a fake. There is no Andrea Parker from Kanwaka, Kansas." I heard the sound of plastic tapping on wood and guessed Sam must have been holding my license. I realized that I couldn't feel the familiar lump of my wallet in my back pocket. (Yes, I'm a girl and I carry a wallet. It's easier than lugging around a purse.)

"Kanwaka? Why does that sound familiar?" Dean asked.

"Because it's right outside Lawrence, and you make jokes about it every time you see the sign."

"Well, you have to admit, it is a funny name."

"The thing that bothers me is the way she acted like she knew who we were." Sam said, ignoring Dean's last comment. "I can't find any mention of anyone famous with those names who would be traveling together, and I can't figure why she would have thought we were them, whoever they are. Then, of course, there's the necklace. I'm stumped on this one."

"Well, for one thing, it's _Jensen_, not Jason. Jensen Ackles and Jared Padaleki." My mouth kicked into gear before my brain did. I sat up and looked at them. They were both looking at me. "And I have a sneaking suspicion that you won't find any references to them."

Sam was already typing the corrected names into his laptop.

"Ok, Andrea, or whoever you are, what's your story? You said you needed help, what kind of help?" Dean asked as Sam ran his search.

"Even with all the weirdness you two deal with all the time, I doubt you will believe me. I'm still not sure I believe what's going on. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is just a very vivid dream."

Sam stopped looking at the laptop, and both brothers looked at me with eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you mean by weirdness?" Dean probed.

I couldn't resist, "You know, Dean, strange. Unusual." I did my best to copy the way Dean had said those words when he was questioning Karen Giles in Usual Suspects. It must have worked because the next thing I knew I had two guns pointed my way, and was getting wet again because Sam was splashing me with what I assume was holy water.

When there was no smoke, and I didn't yelp in pain, they relaxed a little, but only a little. Dean asked, "So, who are you really?"

"I really am Andrea Parker from Kanwaka, Kansas. I guess it's only fair that I don't exist in your world, because you two don't really exist in mine. In my reality, you two are characters in a TV show." My stomach was churning, and my brain was running a mile a minute. I hadn't intended to tell them the truth right off. But I'd spilled the beans. I guess I just couldn't bring myself to lie to them. It's a pretty sad life when two of the most important people in it are fictional characters, but there you are. My life was pretty sad. I've never really fit into the reality I grew up in. I always felt like I was born into the wrong time, wrong place. I was always looking for an escape into a world where I felt more at home, and the world of Supernatural was one of those escapes. I never missed an episode. Now, here I was, sitting in front of Sam and Dean Winchester with the monumental task of convincing them that I wasn't insane. Of course, it was going to be even harder because _I_ wasn't totally sure I _was_ sane.

Sam and Dean were looking at each other, and I could almost hear the non-verbal conversation they were having. Dean's expression clearly said "She's nuts." Sam's face was harder to read, but I think he was trying to get across, "You're probably right, but let's get the whole story here."

"Characters on a TV show?" Sam prompted, speaking slowly as if afraid to upset the crazy lady.

I sighed. _Details. The proof is going to be in the details_, I told myself, then jumped right in. "Yes. You are Dean and Sam Winchester. You hunt ghosts and demons and other things that most people don't believe in. You were trained by your father, John, after your mother was killed by a demon on your," I nodded in Sam's direction, "six-month birthday. You have visions that are always connected to the demon or the other special kids. Halloween night, about a year and a half ago, Dean came to your apartment at Stanford. He broke in. The two of you fought until you realized who it was you were fighting. Then Jess woke up and came to see what was going on. Dean said he had family business to discuss and Sam said that whatever you had to say you could say it in front of Jess. When Dean mentioned that your dad was on a hunting trip and hadn't been home in a few days, you took the conversation outside. You ended up going to Jericho, California where you had a run-in with a woman in white spirit named Constance who'd drowned her children. You," another nod, this time in Dean's direction, "shot out the driver side window of the Impala, and later Sam said, "Good job you freak. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face?" During the course of all this, Dean got arrested, and got your dad's journal, which had the coordinates 35-111 in it. Then you went back to Stanford." When I saw the looks on their faces I realized I'd made a mistake, "I'm really sorry about Jess. I guess I should have picked a less painful episode to convince you guys, but the pilot seemed like the right place to start." I trailed off, my voice full of apology, realizing what painful memories I'd dredged up for them. I wanted to kick myself, or bang my head against a wall. I wanted to take back everything that had spilled out of my mouth since the moment I'd met them.

They were both staring at me, mouths gaping open like fish on land. Dean was the first to react, but not with disbelief as I'd expected. He was pissed.

"How do you know that?" he demanded. He was right over me with the gun in my face, and I'd hardly had time to register his movement. "How can you possibly know that?" His face was almost red with rage, and the muscles in his neck were tight, and the look in his eyes was pure death.

Sam was on his feet almost as fast. He was also pointing a gun at me, but his other hand was on Dean's shoulder, pulling him back, calming him down. "Dean," he said, his voice low and calming, "Dean, back off. Look, she's terrified."

I was, too. I was crying, and I had my hands over my face, palms outward as if to ward off a blow. I was saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again. I honestly thought he was going to kill me. I really wish I could have met my impending demise with more dignity than that, but it is what it is. I was terrified.

Dean must have realized that I was no threat, because they both backed off. They retreated to the far side of the room, and I could feel their eyes on me as they spoke in low voices. The exchange was heated, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. I did my best to pull myself together, pulling one of the pillows around in front of me to hug.

I was beating myself up in my head for making such a mess of things. It was just one more fuck-up in a life full of fuck-ups. I couldn't stop the tears, but now they were as much self-pity and self-loathing as they were fear. I may have a new, perfect body, but I was still the same person inside. And I'd never been very happy with who I was.

While I was lost in my own misery, the brothers must have come to some decision, because they crossed the room again back to the side of the bed. Sam said, "I'm sorry, but until we know whether or not we can trust you, we are going to have to tie you up. You know way too much about us."

I nodded, wiping my eyes. "After everything you guys have been through, I can't blame you. Whatever you need to do, do it." I dropped the pillow and held out my hands, stretching my feet out in front of me so they could tie those as well. I must have looked pretty pitiful sitting there with a tear streaked face, waiting for them to tie me up, because Dean, who had pulled a length of rope from the black duffle bag on the dresser, hesitated. He took a couple of steps toward the bed and looked at my face, and he couldn't do it.

"Aw, hell. Look, do you promise you won't try anything?"

I nodded. "I won't get off the bed until I can convince you that you can trust me. I do know a lot about you, and you know nothing about me, but I'm not possessed or working for the FBI, or out to hurt you in any way. I just don't know how to convince you of that."

"Christo," said Sam, and when I didn't flinch or go all demon eyes they relaxed a bit.

"If it helps, I can recite the Lord's Prayer. I don't think a demon can do that," I offered.

Sam waved off my suggestion. "I think we can be reasonably sure you aren't possessed." He pulled the chair away from the little table and moved it closer to the bed. Dean stayed on his feet with is gun out. He'd had second thoughts about tying me up, but he still wasn't comfortable with the idea of a perfect stranger knowing so much about them. I got the feeling he would have been pacing, but he didn't want to take his eyes off of me.

Jensen Ackles is a fantastic actor, but the truth is, he's only an actor. The real Sam and Dean have actually lived all of the things Jensen and Jared have acted at. They have an intensity about them that actors could never pull off. They have both faced death, and dealt it out, and that leaves a mark on a person. I could see in Dean's eyes that he really would have shot me if I'd made any sort of threatening move.

Sam turned his char around backwards and sat straddling it, his arms resting on the low back as he faced me. "Ok. So you claim that you are from another reality, and that we are characters on TV, right?"

I nodded.

"Alright. How long has this show been running?"

"Almost two years. The second season has five episodes left that haven't aired yet," I answered.

"And you've seen most of it?"

"Every episode, most of them more than once."

"So let's see just how much you really know about us. Name some of the things we've gone up against."

I started with Wendigo and listed off every episode in order, hitting the major plot points of each, but I tried to stay away from anything that would bring up painful memories. I watched the expressions on their faces change as I mentioned each one. There were plenty of frowns, but I saw a smile or two, especially when I mentioned the pranks they'd played during Hell House. When I got into the second season episodes, though, avoiding the bad stuff was just about impossible. When I got to Croatoan I told them about the bit at the end when Duane was revealed to be possessed, and Dean spoke for the first time since I started.

"Son of a bitch!" He spoke in a low voice, and his tone said he'd known something was off, and I'd just confirmed it.

Sam stopped me there and said, "Jump ahead. What was the last episode you saw?"

I hesitated. If this was still recent it was going to hurt Sam. A lot. I had no idea how closely their time ran to what I had seen back in my world. They were waiting for an answer, and I looked down before I answered in a soft voice, almost a whisper. "Madison."

Sam flinched when I said the name. He looked away, and I was sure he was fighting back tears. In a rare show of emotion, Dean stepped over and laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

When Sam spoke, it was almost too soft to hear, "That happened two weeks ago." His knee started to bounce, and, abruptly, he stood and paced away from me to the other side of the room.

I pulled the pillow to me again and hugged it, unsure if I should say anything more. I didn't. I waited for Sam to regain his composure. I could see that Dean was torn between following him and keeping me covered. Another tear leaked out of my eye in sympathy.

The room stayed quiet for several minutes. Dean resigned himself to staying where he could see me and let his brother have a moment to himself. Sam disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard the sink come on. A minute or two later and he came back out. He stood next to Dean, and I could see that his eyes were a little red, and his collar and bangs were damp, so he must have washed his face.

Dean spoke first, "So what you are saying is that our lives for the past year and a half have been splashed all over the TV for the world to see?"

I nodded, "But not here, not in this reality. I'm probably the only person in this reality who knows."

"Yeah, but that doesn't change the creepy feeling I get when I think about it." He threw in a theatrical shudder for effect.

"Believe me, I'm having to change my world view just as much as you guys are. For all I know I'm a fictional character in someone else's reality. Considering what's going on it's probably some cheesy fan fic posted on the internet." I threw in a shudder that mirrored Dean's and actually managed to get Sam to halfway smile.

Dean leaned over to Sam and said, sotto voice, "What's a fan fic?"

Sam waved off Dean's question with a muttered, "Later." His face had gone all serious again, and I could tell he was thinking. After a moment, he asked, "So, assuming we can believe you, I'm guessing the help you need is to get back home again?"

I opened my mouth to reply, and then shut it again. I really wasn't sure how to answer that. My first reflex, when I'd been standing in the rain, had been to figure out where I was and go home. But now that I knew, I wasn't sure if I really wanted to go home again. I said as much, "Let me get back to you on that. I'm not so sure a fresh start isn't just what I need."

"You don't want to go home?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"If you worked ten hour days on an assembly line and had an emotionally abusive husband would you want to go home?"

"No, not so much."

"I've been squirreling money away for over a year now so I could get away, but every time I think I'm close some emergency pops up; the front porch needs to be fixed before it falls down, the car needs repairs, and I end up having to dip into my escape fund to fix things. He's easier to deal with when things run more or less smoothly. This thing, whatever this is, could be a blessing in disguise. I don't exist here. I don't have anything to tie me down. No more excuses." I paused and bit my thumb nail, then said, "The only problem is, I also have no bank account, no credit cards, and no car. I've only got the clothes on my back and no legal identity. I'm not even sure I can spend the ten bucks in my wallet 'cause the bills might be different here." I looked up and caught Sam's eyes, "I guess your forgery skills and contacts may come in more handy here than your knowledge of the arcane." I shrugged. "Besides, this might be temporary anyway. For all I know I could wake up in the morning back in my own bed, or in a hospital room. I could be in a coma and all of this is just a very vivid dream."

"Ok, then. Sam, can I have a word with you?" Dean motioned Sam to the other side of the room where they spoke in low tones. I could see concern and puzzlement flashing across Sam's features, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. After an animated debate they came back. "Well, it's been a really long, really weird day, and I don't know about you, Sammy, but I could use some sleep. What do you say we pick this up in the morning?" He turned to me, "Um, no offence or anything, but I'm going back to our original plan." Instead of the rope, though, he pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the duffle. Now, Dean standing over me with a pair of handcuffs, well… let's just say these are not the circumstances I'd always imagined for that scenario. He cuffed me to the headboard. Sam offered to take the couch, and Dean stretched out on the other bed.

Sam stayed up for a while. In fact he was still up working on his laptop when I fell asleep.

o0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0o

The next morning I was awakened by the sound of Dean's voice as he woke Sam. He'd apparently found the handcuffs and paperclip I'd left on the nightstand. I sat up and he looked over at me, then pointedly down at the handcuffs.

"They chaffed. Besides, I had to use the bathroom and you were sleeping so peacefully that I didn't want to wake you," I explained sheepishly.

"You picked the cuffs, got up and walked across the room, and used the bathroom, and neither of us woke up. Sam, we're getting rusty."

"My dad used to take me bowhunting." I shrugged, "He taught me how to move quietly. And I learned how to pick cuffs from you. Or because of you, actually. After you did it in the pilot I looked it up online to see if handcuffs really could be picked with a paperclip. Once I read something, it tends to stick."

Dean made his "_Ok, I'm impressed_" face. Sam was about to say something, but before he could get a word out a scream ripped apart the morning quiet. It sounded like it was coming from one of the rooms not far from ours. Dean was the first out the door, followed closely by Sam. I was right on their heels.

The source of the scream was one of the maids. She was standing in the doorway of a room three doors down from ours. Whatever had made her scream was inside. Sam pulled her back from the door gently and Dean and I looked into the room.

The room was laid out the same as ours. At first I thought they had decorated it with a different color scheme, until I realized what I was seeing. There was blood everywhere – the floor, the walls, even on the mirrored ceiling. The body on the bed looked like it had been flayed. It was sprawled out face up with its head and arms dangling off the foot of the bed, lidless eyes staring. I gasped and fought down the urge to vomit. As I looked away from the corpse my eyes landed on something on the table by the door. I grabbed Dean's sleeve pointed to the puddle of viscous black ooze. "Is that ectoplasm?"

Dean nodded. He stepped into the room to take a closer look, but before he went too far Sam was there.

"Wait. The maid is going to call the police. We need to be gone before they get here."

Dean nodded. He pulled a plastic room key from his pocket and used it to scrape up a sample of the black ooze. "This looks like our kind of gig."

I followed them back to the room. They had their stuff packed and were ready to be out the door in record time. One of the benefits of traveling light.

I stopped them before they got out the door, though. "Wait. Give me your cell number. I'll stay and see what I can find out. I'll call you after the police leave."

They hesitated, still not certain if they could trust me. Sam studied my face for a moment then nodded. "That'll work." He gave me his number and the un-slimed room key. "If they ask, the room is registered under the name James McDermott."

"Um, I don't even know what state we're in."

"Boise, Idaho." And with that, they were gone, and I was alone in the room. I gave them enough time to get to the parking lot, and then I joined the growing crowd in the hallway. The police arrived a few minutes later and pushed the crowd back away from the room.

I found myself standing next to one of the desk clerks. He looked like he was maybe eighteen or nineteen, a college student working a summer job, maybe. His nametag read Tad. Acting like a curious rubbernecker, I asked him, "I heard they found a body in there?"

"Yeah second one since the place re-opened. I heard the first one was skinned alive. They still haven't caught the killer."

"Re-opened? Why did it close in the first place? It looks like it's been here just about forever."

He shrugged, "Dunno for sure, I only started here last month after the last clerk quit. Something spooked her and she refused to come back. I think she was just traumatized. I heard she found the first body."

"How long ago was the first one?"

"Just a week or so before she quit."

"I don't know much about Boise, my boyfriend is here for a job interview and we're thinking of moving here. Is this a bad neighborhood? I mean, does this sort of thing happen often around here."

He shook his head, "No, this is a great neighborhood. It used to be pretty seedy, like thirty years ago, but they've really cleaned it up."

"Any idea what spooked the other clerk? I mean besides finding a skinned body." I probed.

"I heard she was working a night shift and heard something that freaked her out, but I don't know for sure. I never met her, and you know how gossip gets around."

I nodded, "Yeah, you can't trust any of it." I was about to ask another question, but the coroner arrived, and the police started interviewing the onlookers. Tad excused himself to go back to the front desk before he got in trouble.

When the uniformed officer got to me I repeated the story about my boyfriend and the job interview, told him I hadn't seen anything, just heard the maid scream, saw a lot of blood in the room, and had to run back to my room because I felt like I was going to puke. He asked about the other two guys who'd been in the hall and I said I didn't know them. I told him they'd come out of another room, but I didn't see which one. That seemed to satisfy the officer. The only thing that worried me was that he took down the info from my license. If he ran it, it would come back bogus, but hopefully I'd given him no reason to check it.

It was several hours before the police left and I could call Sam and Dean. I watched the action until the crowd in the hall dispersed. I would have liked to have stayed longer, but I didn't want to call attention to myself, so I made sure I wasn't the last onlooker to drift away.

The brothers must not have gone very far because they were back barely fifteen minutes after I called with the all clear. As soon as they were back I told them about what I'd found out from Tad. I was absolutely gushing, I was so excited. It spilled out of me so fast that Sam had to ask me to slow down and start again.

Once I'd gotten the story out, Dean grabbed up the EMF meter and took off to check the room, and Sam cracked open his laptop to find any articles about the first murder and why the motel was closed down. I was left at loose ends, and all I could really do was watch and wait. They were so focused on the job it was almost as if they'd forgotten about me.

Sam's forehead was creased in concentration as he paged through the online archives of the local paper. I walked around behind him to read over his shoulder. He pulled the second chair over and said, "If you're going to hover, you may as well sit."

I sat, and as I did I realized that it wasn't just because he was being nice, but because this way I would be in his line of sight, rather than behind him where he couldn't see me. After another minute of searching he said, "You did a good job getting that information. Did the police talk to you?"

"Yeah. They wanted to know if I was with the other two men who'd been in the hall. I told them no, and that I didn't see what room you came out of. They asked if I was alone, and which room I was staying in. Since the room is rented in a guy's name I told them that I was here with my boyfriend and that he was gone to a job interview, and I didn't know what time he would be back. I stayed as long as I could and watched, but I made sure I wasn't the last to leave the hallway either."

"Good instincts, and that's a good cover story, too. When I rented the room I told them it was for two, but Dean stayed outside, so the clerk won't know the difference. I guess that means we get to play at being a couple for a couple of days." He sat up a little straighter suddenly, "Here we go."

I grabbed a pen and the pad of motel stationary, poised to take notes. Sam read off the important points from the story.

"The Cherry Drop Inn. They actually named it that?" He laughed, and then continued, shaking his head in amusement. "It was built in 1967, then in January of 1978 there was a fire, one fatality – a man, identity unknown. The remains were too charred to identify. One wing of the motel was destroyed. That wing was bulldozed and paved over as a parking lot. The motel changed its name and owner and operated with only the two undamaged wings until late last year, and then one of the other wings caught fire. The damage was minimal and was repaired, and the motel re-opened for business two months ago." I jotted notes as he read.

"So maybe the ghost is the first fire victim. The second fire might have been what woke it up?"

"Possibly, construction can stir up spirits. But why were the bodies skinned?" He scanned the rest of the article but found nothing else useful. He typed another search – _skinned body cherry drop inn_. Two articles came up, one from a couple of weeks after the motel re-opened, and one from 1977. Before he could open them, however, Dean came bursting in through the door. He was carrying his shoes in one hand.

"Oh yeah, this place definitely has a resident spook. Full on vengeful spirit action. The EMF readings were pretty strong, and I found more ectoplasm." He looked excited to be on a job. It was probably a relief to have something so straight forward and familiar to deal with after the bizarre metaphysical ramifications of my existence. Or he just really likes his job. I'm betting it was a little of both.

Sam motioned to the shoes, his eyebrows going up in inquiry.

"I didn't think leaving a trail of bloody footprints straight to our room was such a hot idea. There was so much of it the carpet squished."

"Eww, gross." I shuddered at the thought.

Dean had to take advantage of my discomfort, "You think that's bad, you should have seen the bed. There were fleshy bits."

I'm sure I must have turned a little green. Sam came to my rescue by changing the subject. He filled Dean in on what he'd found so far, and Dean, after dropping his shoes off in the bathroom sink, came over to see the other two articles. I offered to give up my seat to him, but he waved me back down and leaned on the back of Sam's chair instead. I prepared to take notes again, content to be useful in whatever small way I could.

While we waited for the first article to load Dean commented, "You know, if it weren't for the ectoplasm, I'd almost think we were dealing with a skinwalker."

"Nah, the bodies were left where they could be found. If everyone knows the person is dead, what would be the point in taking their skin? Not much use in taking the identity of a dead man." Sam pointed out.

"I didn't think of that. Good thing I have a geek-boy for a brother." Dean conceded. Sam rolled his eyes, tried to hide a smile, and turned his attention back to the computer screen and the article which had finally come up.

It was the more recent of the two articles, and it wasn't much help. There wasn't much more information than I'd already gotten from the desk clerk, except for the date of the murder, which was exactly one month ago that day. The victim had been skinned - the 'alive' part was probably word-of-mouth exaggeration as the article didn't mention it. The police had no leads, and there was no sign of forced entry or struggle. The body had been identified as one Greg Bernard from Boise.

"Why would someone who lived locally be in a motel room?" I asked, "Having an affair, maybe?"

"Could be. Maybe we're looking for some twisted variation on a Woman in White – a spirit who kills unfaithful men." Dean observed.

"Could be, but that's making a lot of assumptions. He could have been here while his house was being fumigated or something. We need to find out more about him and today's victim. See if there's a link," Sam put in.

Dean looked at me, "You didn't happen to get this stiff's name, did you?"

I shook my head. "No, sorry."

"Ok, then. We'll need to sneak a peek at the motel register. You up for a little B&E, bro?" Dean punched Sam's shoulder.

"Sure. We can check the employee records for the name of the chick who found the last body, too. Whatever she heard that scared her into quitting may give us a clue."

"Is there any way I can help?" The brothers Winchester turned to look at me in sync, Dean with an evil gleam in his eye.

"Yeah. I think there is." From the way Dean said that, I got the feeling I would regret volunteering.

The second article, the one from 1977, was about a skinned body that was never identified found in an abandoned house across the street from the motel. The house was no longer there, where it had stood was now a mini-mart. The article stated that a trail of bloody footprints lead across the street and into one of the rooms of the Cherry Drop Inn. The room they led to was vacant, it hadn't been rented the night before. There was no sign of force entry, and the motel staff had come under suspicion, but the killer had never been found.

Sam wanted to see what he could find out about Greg Bernard and the other skinned corpses. We couldn't get into the office until that night when there would be only one desk clerk on duty. So, while Sam stayed and milked the internet for all the information he could dig up, Dean took me shopping.

He wanted me to distract the night clerk while he and Sam broke into the files. He figured I was going to need something a little more distracting to wear than two day old jeans and t-shirt. While we were out, I picked up a couple of changes of clothes and some other necessities, and a backpack to stow them in. It was pretty nice to be able to shop without worrying about blowing my budget, since Mahogoff was buying.

We also stopped at a liquor store and picked up a couple of tiny sample sized bottles of tequila. Dean actually reached for the whisky first, but since I was the one who was going to play at being drunk I chose something I could actually stand the taste of, instead.

Most of the trip was pretty quiet. But, after we pulled through a Sonic drive through to pick up some lunch, Dean finally brought up the elephant in the living room, "So, I'm still finding it hard to believe that you popped into our world from a different dimension. But it's really the only explanation for why you know so much about Sam and me. You've helped us out on this case, and if you were planning trouble you've had plenty of opportunities and didn't take them. Have you made up your mind about whether you want to stay here, or try to find your way back to your world?"

"I think I want to stay here. I think I'd like to be a hunter like you and Sam. I mean, I know I still have a lot to learn, but I think I could do the job." I listed off my qualifications, "I know how to handle a gun, and a bow. I've even had some sword training. I can move quietly. I've had some karate classes, so I've already got some basic hand to hand skills. And I was six credit hours away from getting a bachelors degree in cultural anthropology with a focus on comparative religion and mythology."

Dean whistled, "So why didn't you finish and get your degree?"

"I met a guy. He convinced me to move away with him, said he would support me while I finished school, transferring my credits would be no problem, and he'd pay the tuition. I thought he was Mister Right. Turned out he was Mister Deadbeat. He always had a plan, a scheme, and great wealth was right around the corner. I stayed with him for two years before I realized that it was never going to happen. I spent two years waiting tables at a truck stop diner while my scholarship expired. By the time the rose colored glasses came off, it was too late to go back to school. So, I hitched a ride with a truck driver. By the time I got to my parent's place I'd decided to get my CDL. I spent the next two years driving big rigs. Then I met Steve. It was a whirlwind romance, and we were married after only three months. Big mistake. That's how I ended up living in Kansas working in a factory. After six months I realized how big a mistake it was. Steve was constantly telling me how worthless I was, and that I was fat and he was the only guy who would want me. But I was locked into paying a mortgage, and making car payments, and the last thing I wanted to do was run home to Mom and Dad. Besides, I'd started to believe what he was telling me."

"So this guy played with your head pretty bad, huh?"

"Love makes you do stupid things, and I thought I loved him. My judgment when it comes to men has never been very good. But now that I'm away from him, I don't even really miss him. I feel free."

"Then I guess you'll be staying?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Being a hunter isn't easy. Sam and I can get you set up with a couple of fake identities to get you started, but don't count on a couple of karate classes and some book knowledge to keep you alive."

"I know."

Dean glanced over at me, "The one thing I don't get, though, is where he got 'fat' from. You look pretty fit to me."

I laughed. "You know why I fainted last night when you first picked me up? The reason I knew I wasn't in my own world anymore? It was because I looked down. Before I showed up here, I was fat, and I wore glasses. When I shifted over to this reality, I ended up in a perfect TV-version of my own body."

"Well. The universe was good to you, then." He waggled an eyebrow in an exaggerated leer, and I laughed. It felt good to laugh like that, and I don't think I'd done it since I was in college. I really did feel free.

o0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0o

By the time we got back to the room and lured Sam away from his laptop with a hot burger and fries I was in a really good mood. Even Dean going over the plan for that night couldn't bring me down. I was actually looking forward to it.

While we ate, Sam updated us on what he'd found out. "Ok, so nothing unusual went on here before the first skinned body was found in 1977. The trail of bloody footprints leading to the motel were most likely from a person, spirits don't leave tracks like that. I dug into the '78 fire, and the official reports have it listed as arson. The victim of that fire wasn't a registered guest, they were all accounted for, and the room he was found in was supposed to be unoccupied, just like the room the bloody tracks lead to. My guess is that it was someone squatting here, probably bouncing from room to room as needed. The fire last year was due to a guest falling asleep with a lit cigarette, a complete accident as far as I can tell." He paused to take a bite of his burger.

"So it's looking more like the crispy critter is our spook?" Dean commented.

Sam nodded. "It could be the first skinned victim, but the fact that it didn't become active until after the second fire makes me lean more towards the 'crispy critter' theory, too. Unfortunately, that means there won't be bones to burn. Since the body was never identified, the state paid for a cremation, and the ashes are interred in a numbered plot along with a number of other John Does."

"That's gonna make this tricky," Dean commented between French fries. "I still don't get the whole skinning thing, though. I mean, what are we dealing with here, the spirit of a serial killer whose life was snuffed out just as he was getting started? That job in Philly all over again?"

"Serial killers usually pick women for victims, don't they? All the bodies so far have been men." Sam pointed out. "We keep hitting dead ends on this one. There's nothing on the first victim in '77 and nothing on the burnt man in '78." He perked up suddenly and dropped his burger back onto its wrapper, "We need to talk to the original owner. Maybe he or she would know something." He pulled his laptop over and started tapping away. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. "The original owners of the Cherry Drop Inn were Marcus and Beth Cherry, which explains the name, I guess." A little more tapping and he followed with, "There's an obit for Marcus from last year, but as far as I can tell, Beth is still alive… Ah! Here's her address." He grinned triumphantly.

"I'll break out the press IDs. What's the name of the local paper?" Dean asked as he polished off the last of his fries.

I watched as they made their preparations and got their cover story worked out. I enjoyed the way they bantered with each other, gruff, but you could tell there was affection behind the jabs.

"Dean, have you seen my tie?"

"I don't go through your bags, dude. Your sock stench would keep a troll away."

"You can't wear that jacket like that, we're supposed to look professional. What'd you do, just roll it up and stuff it in the glove box?"

"Um, actually… Yeah." Dean pulled the wrinkled suit coat back off and looked around the room. I was already pulling out the room's iron and ironing board from the closet. He smiled and handed me the jacket, relieved.

Sam smiled too, "Thanks, Andrea. Last time he ironed something he nearly started a fire."

"Did not!" Dean put on a mock offended look.

"Did too!"

"Well, maybe, but at least I've never gotten us kicked out of a hotel for tracking bloody mud across the lobby."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

I looked down to hide a smile as they said those last words. I almost felt like I was intruding, but I couldn't help enjoying being there. I normally hate ironing, but I liked feeling useful. Besides, I figured as long as I was being helpful they'd be more likely to keep me around longer. The flurry of activity and brotherly banter ended all too soon, though.

They finished up, and with one last pat of his pockets to make sure he had everything Dean said, "You ready, Sammy?"

"Ready if you are." He looked over at me, "You coming?"

I was shocked. I'd assumed they would leave me to wait in the room. All I could do was grin and hurry to catch up.

As we walked out to the Impala Dean turned to me and said, "You'll have to wait in the car while we talk to the widow Cherry, but we're going to have to stop off at a copy shop to change these IDs. I can at least give you a lesson on how to forge credentials."

That brought Sam up short, but he recovered quickly. He gave Dean a questioning look.

Dean nodded and made a gesture that I took to mean, "Tell you about it later."

I'd been unconscious for my first ride in the Impala, so I hadn't been able to appreciate it. It was amazing. Dean must have really done some souping up on that engine because it felt like a monster of a powerhouse. I've ridden in a lot of muscle cars, and even drove an eighteen wheeler, and I've never felt the rumble of restrained power that that car packed. It was like a living thing, and I prayed that I might have the opportunity to drive it one day.

It looked lived in. Not dirty, no fast food wrappers or trash, but I could see the signs of long hours cooped up here. It wasn't just a car, it was a home. There was a plaid over-shirt tossed over the back of Sam's seat, and a jacket tossed on the rear dash. A stack of maps and road atlases poked out of the pocket on the back of the driver's seat, handy for when they were needed. The car smelled mainly of aftershave, a little bit of sweat and gun oil, and a hint of fast food. There was an undertone of fresh earth, and I guessed that was from the muddy pair of boots and folded e-tool (that's one of those military folding shovels) on the passenger side floorboard.

The ride wasn't long, but I was so focused on the car that I didn't even notice which direction we went. Pretty sloppy if I wanted to be a hunter. I ought to be able to do like Sam did in Bloodlust. He was blindfolded and still figured out the way back to the vampire nest. I made a mental note to work on that from now on.

Dean parallel parked smoothly in front of a Lightning Copy. I followed him inside while Sam waited in the car. Dean spoke quietly so the clerk wouldn't overhear, even though she was obviously trying to eavesdrop without being noticed. The shop must not get much business because she looked bored.

He gave me pointers about how to make IDs look official. He used a self-serve machine to run off a photocopy of the front page of the local newspaper, then he cut off the letterhead and copied it again, reducing it to business card size. He adjusted the contrast on the machine and cleaned up the copy so it was crisp black and white, laid the cut out and trimmed reduction on the blank space of the pre-made IDs with his and Sam's pictures on them and ran off color copies of each. The result was official looking IDs complete with the letterhead of the local paper. A quick application of stiff laminate and they were done. He even creased the corners of his, and peeled back and rolled the laminate on Sam's just a little to make them look a little older and well used.

"Not much to it. People will generally accept anything laminated with a picture on it without a second glance. Reporters make a good cover because most people want their fifteen minutes, and it's not as risky as posing as cops or feds. But you do what the situation calls for." He waited until we were outside, away from the prying ears of the cashier to say the rest. "Badges are a little trickier. Most reputable dealers won't sell you one unless you've got letterhead authorization from whatever department the badge belongs to, and they do check, so forging the authorization isn't an option. For badges, you have to have contacts. I nearly got into trouble once 'cause one of those contacts sold me a stolen badge instead of a clean replica. Turned out it belonged to an overweight African American, and I couldn't talk my way out of it."

"I know. Michael Jackson skin disease?" I teased.

"That's just freaking creepy. Don't do that." I was afraid I'd messed up again by reminding him about what I knew, but he smiled and admitted, "I guess that was pretty lame, though."

We got into the car, and he handed Sam his ID. Sam glanced at his, "Tubbs? Dude, yours better not say Crockett. She's never gonna fall for that."

"I'm not that stupid. Mine's Donald Johnson." And with a huge smirk he started the engine and pulled out into traffic while Sam rolled his eyes and groaned. Of course, no one could hear the groan over the stereo blasting out Credence's "Born on the Bayou" – _When I was just a little boy, standing to my daddy's knee, my Papa said son don't let the man get you, and do what he done to me… _

I poked through Dean's tape collection while I waited for them. It seemed to take forever before they came out of the old lady's house, but they were smiling, so I guessed it must have gone well.

After they got in I leaned on the seat back between them and said, "Well, don't keep me in suspense. Did you get anything?"

"Yeah. She was pretty nice, offered us tea and cookies. We almost couldn't get her to stop talking. It turns out that there was a serial killer working the neighborhood that summer. The cops kept it pretty hush-hush, so not much made the papers. That's why it didn't come up in my search. She only knows about it because her husband had friends on the force at the time." Sam started.

"And this guy was a real sicko, too. He started out taking fingers and ears, then graduated to scalps. Men and women, no real pattern to the victims. The cops figure the skinned corpse was just him stepping it up a little further. After the fire, the killings stopped, so the authorities figured their killer was dead." Dean finished. He thought a second, "That nice old lady talked about the gory details like she was discussing the weather. That was kind of creepy."

Something about what he'd said about the killer tugged at my brain. It took me a moment to put my finger on it, but when I did I piped up, "You said the killer was taking ears and fingers?" After Sam nodded I went on, "That fire happened not long after the Vietnam War ended. It may not mean anything, but wasn't there some big scandal about our soldiers taking fingers and ears as trophies over there? Or did I see that in a movie?"

"I'm not sure, I don't know about fingers, but I think I did hear the ear thing somewhere. The first killing was in '75, right after the end of the war. At first they were few and far between, but the killer was picking up his pace as time went on. There were seven victims in all, four of them in the summer of '77."

"'77? Isn't that the same summer Berkowitz stepped up his killings? The Summer of Sam?" Dean observed. "Hell of a coincidence." He started the car, but left the radio off so we could talk on the ride back to the motel.

"Demons I get, people are just crazy." I couldn't resist, the line was just begging to be said.

"Amen, sister." Dean agreed.

o0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0oo0o

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, and then downed the last of the mini-bottle of tequila when breathing didn't work. Most of the contents of the bottle had been sprinkled across my clothes to give me that alluring "I've been in a bar all night and I'm really drunk" aroma. I tugged at the hem of my skirt. It was probably the shortest skirt I'd ever worn in my life.

The top I was wearing wasn't much better. I felt revealed, and vulnerable. I was also a little wobbly in the high heels, but that would only add to the appearance of being drunk. Dean was openly leering, and Sam kept sneaking looks when he thought no one would notice. The attention was going to my head.

I'd always been an ugly duckling, but now… I felt giddy with power. For the first time in my life I could turn heads. I was so scared that I was going to mess this up.

I must have been broadcasting my nervousness because Sam reassured me, "You'll do fine. Just get him away from the desk and keep him away for at least five minutes. It shouldn't take us any longer than that. You've got my phone, right?"

I double checked the little handbag I was carrying. The phone was there. "Yup."

"Ok, I'll call you as soon as we're clear. If you get into trouble and need a rescue from college boy just say… uh…" Dean scratched his head as he tried to come up with a code word. "Got it," he smirked, "Just work the word 'cowboy' into the conversation. Sam here will ride in like a jealous boyfriend and scare the guy off."

I couldn't help but grin at the thought of Sam as my jealous boyfriend. I actually hoped Tad would get grabby just so I could see it.

A few minutes later and I was walking unsteadily into the lobby of the motel. I wobbled up to the desk and gave Tad my most charming damsel in distress act. "Um, I'm sorry to bother you, but," I pulled out the room key card, "I can't seem to get this thing to work. It's like it won't even go into the slot on the door."

"Ok, let me reprogram it for you." He took the card from my hand. He just wasn't getting the idea.

"I don't think that will help." I tried, "I think there's something jammed in the slot on my door. Can you come take a look?" I leaned over the counter a little to show a little more cleavage and touched his hand. I also pulled a pouty 'aren't you going to help me' face and batted my eyelashes a bit. That seemed to have worked.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the cleavage. Normally I might have been offended, but in this case it was just what I wanted. He came out from behind the counter, locking the office door behind him. I glanced back as we went through the main lobby doors and saw Dean flash me a thumbs up as he and Sam slipped in through the side door.

Tad followed me back to the room like a puppy. I played it up a little, "I'm glad you're walking with me. I was a little nervous being in the hallway all alone after they found that body today. What if the killer is still around?"

"Oh, I'm sure he's long gone by now," Tad tried to be reassuring. "I thought you were here with your boyfriend?" He probed, and I could hear a hopeful tone in his voice. I had a little twinge of guilt about leading him on, but it was necessary. Besides, I was having too much fun.

I tried to look sad and annoyed, "He wanted to stay at the bar. I think he was playing pool or something. I ended up having to take a cab."

"Here we are. Room 42, right?" Tad's voice was just a little nervous. "Let's take a look at that key slot." He poked at it for a minute, and while he was looking away I snuck a glance at my watch. Four minutes. I'd give the boys as much time as I could, but hopefully the phone in my purse would ring soon. I didn't want to have to take this too far.

"Ah, here's your problem. Someone jammed a business card in the slot."

Just as he was saying that, the cell phone rang. I pulled it out and put it to my ear. Tad was turning to show me the business card. The lights in the hall started to flicker and the temperature dropped about twenty degrees. I could hear a voice on the other end of the phone, but I couldn't make out what it was saying. It was all I could do to choke out the words, "Holy Funkytown Cowboys," before my fingers went nerveless and the phone slipped from my grasp. Tad saw it, too, and screamed like a girl just before he fainted.

Standing in the middle of the hallway, maybe twenty feet from me, was a man. His face was blackened with what looked like jungle cammo grease paint, but underneath the paint the flesh looked charred and skeletal. He was wearing a battered olive drab flack jacket and an ancient pair of jungle boots. If it weren't for the face, and the huge blood covered K-bar knife, and the fact that he was blinking in and out of existence as he advanced slowly toward me, making it look as if he was moving in stop-motion spurts, he would have looked like any one of hundreds of down on his luck Nam vets fresh back from the jungle that I'd seen in pictures from the 70's.

The words seem to come from everywhere at once, but at the same time, I knew they were his, "You all have to pay. You have to pay the piper. You have to know what they made us do. The piper has to be paid." The words were a confusing jumble, one sentence overlaying another, repeating. He was five steps from me, and I was frozen in terror.

"Andrea! Down!" It was Dean's voice, clear and commanding. It broke through the fear. I dropped to the floor and was deafened by the sound of the shotgun blast. Instantly Sam was there, helping me up, making sure I was ok.

"I'm fine. I'm ok." I said it as much to convince myself as to convince him. My knees were shaky, though, and I held onto his arm to stay upright.

"Son of a…Well, I guess your Vietnam theory was right on the money. That blast is going to bring the cops back. We've got to clear out." Dean took charge.

"Wait, what about him?" I pointed to Tad, who was starting to regain consciousness. "We can't just leave him here, what if that thing comes back?"

"Right." Sam handed me off to Dean, and I took a moment to kick off the high heels that I could barely walk in. Once they were off I was able to stand on my own, shaky knees and all, but I didn't let Dean know that right away. I liked holding his arm while he supported me. The moment didn't last though. Sam helped Tad to his feet and we got him back to the office. He was full of questions, but Sam put him off expertly.

Dean pulled a canister of salt from his bag and shook out a line across the door. "Just stay in the office and don't go wandering the halls and you should be fine."

From the look on Tad's face, I got the feeling he'd be looking for a new job tomorrow. I couldn't say I blamed him.

"So, you still want to be a hunter?" Sam asked as we piled into the Impala. I guessed he and Dean must have found a moment to talk.

I thought about it for a minute. That had been really freaky, and I'd frozen when I saw it. Was I going to be able to handle this job? I'd reacted immediately when Dean yelled, so at least my reflexes were good, and it _was_ my first spook. The adrenaline rush was still making my body hum, and I felt more alive than I'd ever felt before. I smiled and answered, "Yes. Now let's figure out how to kill this evil son of a bitch!"

There was a diner with huge glass windows across the street and down the block a little. From one of the front booths we had a great view of the motel parking lot, so it was easy to see when the police arrived, and when they left again.

While we waited we ate and went over what we knew, looking for some clue that would help us get rid of the thing. I told the guys about what I'd seen and heard in the hallway before they'd come to my rescue.

"Ok, so we've got the ghost of a Vietnam veteran who was apparently driven to kill by some sort of Post Traumatic Stress induced psychosis. He was living in the motel illegally, and died in a fire, and now he's back and still killing." Sam laid out our working theory.

"Didn't you say the fire was arson? I wonder if there's some sort of connection there. I mean, maybe he wasn't killed by the fire, but the fire was to cover up a murder." I was thinking aloud.

"It really doesn't matter how he died. What matters is how do we kill it?" Dean put in, pointing with a French fry.

"Maybe there's something of his that was buried when the third wing of the motel was bulldozed. Something like the hookman's hook, or that Dorian guy's truck? The ghost was carrying a K-bar." I was shooting in the dark, but it sounded reasonable.

Sam nodded, "Good thinking. Why don't you and Dean take the EMF and check the parking lot. I want to see what I can dig up about the most recent victim now that we have his name. I'm starting to think the victims may be random, but I want to check just to be sure."

"Sounds like a plan to me," agreed Dean, his eyes following the rear of the cute waitress who'd just walked past.

It didn't take long for the single police cruiser to pull away from the motel, so we finished our meal and went back. I jumped in the shower to wash away the eau d' binge smell and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. The evening had turned chilly, so I borrowed a plaid flannel over shirt from Sam to toss on over my T. Sam looked back and forth between Dean and me and laughed, "You two look like the Doublemint twins."

It was true. We were both wearing brown t-shirts, jeans, plaid shirts, and matching necklaces. My face went red, but when Dean laughed, too, my embarrassment faded and I smiled. Then I tucked my amulet into my shirt so we didn't look quite so much alike. He grabbed up the EMF meter and we tramped out to the parking lot where the third wing of the motel had stood.

He turned on the meter and said, "Ok, so if anyone asks what we're doing out here, were college students, and were doing a survey of the strength of the electromagnetic fields in the city. This is just one of our random locations." When I nodded, he continued, "Whenever you are working with a partner, always get your cover stories straight, and have one handy even if you don't think you'll need it."

He started sweeping the meter back and forth, and we walked the length of the lot. I stayed a few steps behind him, and I had a chance to watch him work. He was focused on the job at hand, pausing whenever the meter blipped to double check the spot and the area around it. He looked up occasionally to see where the overhead power lines were so he could rule out interference from them. He even showed me how the meter would read higher when we were directly under one.

It took a lot longer than I thought it would. When they show it on TV they almost always got a hit right off, but that's edited for time I guess. We were out there moving slowly around the lot for nearly an hour before we found anything. Dean marked the spot with a piece of chalk from his pocket, then he moved off and came back to see if the reading would repeat. It did.

He scanned the pavement. When I asked what he was looking for he explained, "Spray-painted marks on the asphalt. If there is some utility conduit under here it would be marked. But I don't see anything, so it's a good bet this is what we're looking for." He regarded the thirty year old cracked pavement. "Damn, this is going to be tough. We're going to need a sledgehammer."

Sam was in a great mood when we went back to the room. He was nearly hovering above his seat with excitement. "You two are never going to believe what I found. All of the victims in the 70's did have something in common. They were all Army officers during Vietnam. Except for the female victim, she was the wife of a lieutenant who died over there. The two latest victims were both the children of Vietnam vets. There is a pattern."

"Then why did it come after me? My dad was an enlisted sailor on a Navy ship in the Atlantic. He was never in Vietnam."

Sam shrugged, "Huh. Maybe you confused his radar, since you're not from around here."

"So, I'm potentially a magnet for the weird and otherworldly?"

"Not necessarily. One attack doesn't make it a pattern. Besides, he could have been after the desk clerk." Sam tried to reassure me, but the idea had already reared its ugly head.

"Or it could be that he's after us because we want to put an end to his killing spree for good." Dean put in. "Speaking of which, we think we may have found something in the parking lot, but we're going to need some heavy tools to dig it up. Any idea where we can get a sledgehammer at…" He checked his watch, "one in the morning?"

"Yeah, actually. There's a 24 hour Wal-mart out by the interstate. I noticed it when we came into town." Sam supplied.

"Huh." Dean shook his head in amazement at the facts his brother seemed to be able to pull out of thin air.

About an hour later I was leaning against the Impala in the parking lot enjoying one of the best views I'd ever seen. Dean had his shirt off and was pounding away at the asphalt with his newly purchased sledge. His muscles rippled under a thin sheen of sweat. It was awe inspiring. And it ended all too soon. Thirty year old asphalt was no match for Dean Winchester.

He'd pulled the car around to obscure the view of what he was doing from the street. Sam was standing guard with a rock-salt loaded shotgun tucked inconspicuously by his side. I had two shovels, and when Dean finished pulverizing the black-top he traded his sledgehammer for one of them. The two of us dug in.

The digging was difficult. The ground was packed hard, and littered with debris from the old motel. When Dean's shovel finally hit something promising I was ready to collapse with joy. Digging is hard work. He leaned over to brush the dirt away from the old knife, and I was bent over with him to get a better look at it when Sam yelled out a warning. The spook was back, and he was pissed. He materialized right next to Dean and was about to drive his spectral knife into Dean's left kidney. Sam's warning came just in time. Dean twisted out of the way, dropping to a roll and grabbing the real knife out of the dirt as he did. I backed away as Dean and the spook squared off.

They circled each other, each looking for an opening. Sam raised the shotgun, looking for a clear shot, but Dean was between him and the ghost. The spirit lunged at Dean, who danced out of the way and landed a slash on the ghost's arm as he attacked out of instinct. All three of us were shocked when the spirit cried out in pain and clutched at its arm. Dean looked down at the knife and a feral grin spread across his face as he realized that he had a way to end it.

They were evenly matched, and the fight was an awesome thing to watch, almost like a deadly dance. John had trained his son well. Dean, his bare chest gleaming in the light of the streetlamps, was like an ancient warrior, his eyes locked on his opponent. The spirit was fast, and they clashed time and again as each sought out an opening, a weakness in his opponent's defenses. The spirit moved in for another slashing attack and Dean jumped backward, barely avoiding having his stomach slashed open. Regaining his balance quickly he took advantage of the ghost's overconfident swing to make a lung of his own. The specter could have easily disappeared, but instead he dodged the blow - putting himself out of arm's reach momentarily.

The two warriors locked eyes, and it seemed as though an understanding passed between them. This was to be a fair fight. No dissipating and reappearing for the ghost. He may have been dead and homicidal, but apparently he still had some sense of honor. The moment passed, and they closed on one another again. Dean had a look of fierce concentration on his face. He watched for his opening and feinted to the right, shifting his grip on the knife and moving back to the left in a flash he lashed out his ghostly opponent. The spirit almost fell for it, but got his own knife up to block the blow at the last moment. He countered with a slash that caught Dean across his chest, but Dean was moving backward, and the knife left only a shallow trail of crimson across the hunter's torso. Dean grunted with the pain, but he never lost focus.

Circling, lunging, slashing, moving in and whirling away again the two warriors danced until… In one last mighty lunge they tangled together and both fell. Dean hit the pavement and the breath rushed out of him. He lay there, and Sam and I both stepped forward, fearing the worst. Then, thankfully, the vengeful spirit threw his head back and howled in agony. From somewhere in its chest, I guess it was where the knife penetrated, a ball of flame grew and engulfed his spectral form in cold flames. Then it was gone, dissolving into smoke and dissipating on the breeze.

Dean laid there, his knife held above him as it had gone into the ghost. He was breathing heavily. Once he realized the ghost was gone he relaxed, letting his arms drop to the pavement. Sam rushed over to check him for injuries. I heard a sound that I thought, at first, were sobs, but then I realized it was laughter. Dean was laughing, and soon all three of us were laughing together.

The packing up, bandaging up, and getting out of town was pretty anticlimactic after that. We filled in the pothole we'd created as best we could, stopped by the office to let poor Tad, who was huddled in the office and wouldn't come out, know that we were pretty sure it was gone. We took turns in the shower and got a couple of hours of sleep before hitting the road at daybreak.

Just to be on the safe side, we stopped at a cemetery and buried the old knife on consecrated ground, and Sam added 'skinned' and 'Boise' to his keywords on his news-clipping service so he would know if we needed to come back.

As we put Boise behind us Sam turned around to see me in the back seat, "So, you did a pretty good job back there. I think you're going to make a pretty good hunter, but you know you've still got a lot to learn, right."

"Yeah, I know, and I've been thinking about that. How do you guys feel about having an apprentice?"

Dean just laughed and cranked up the stereo.

_Welcome to the jungle  
We got fun 'n' games  
We got everything you want  
Honey we know the names  
We are the people that can find  
Whatever you may need  
If you got the money honey  
We got your disease_

The End


End file.
